Dear Buckie
by lerouret1
Summary: Bucky doesn't know why, but he's getting a lot of emails asking for his advice. A LOT of emails. Like, hundreds. From complete strangers. What the hell? He might as well answer them. A Thank-You appreciation fic in the Sarasotaverse for the inestimable Sheraiah, who is always there to listen when I need her. Love you, Dwarf.


**Dear Buckie,**

 **I have this roommate I'll call "Joe" who is making me miserable. He insisted he take the bigger room in our apartment because he needs the space for his stuff. His stuff has taken over the whole apartment and I don't have room for any of my stuff. All of my things are crammed into my (small) room and he has moved everything of mine out of the kitchen and living room to make room for his stuff. If I complain he only says his stuff is nicer than mine and I should be grateful he's "letting" me use it! I can't have people over because there is so much stuff on the furniture that there is no place to sit down. He is always losing things and then blaming me for moving them. What should I do?**

 **Frustrated in Phoenix**

Bucky scratched his head and stared at the email. This was not what he'd expected when he'd opened his account to see if the water bill had been sent yet. It obviously wasn't spam, and it couldn't be anyone he knew, because who the hell would ask the former Winter Soldier his opinion about a roommate situation in Arizona?

He stretched his legs out to balance on the patio chair across from him, and shifted the computer on his lap. He took a sip of coffee and smiled around his yard. The oranges were starting to ripen, his bougainvillea was a splash of brilliant color draped over the fence, a mockingbird was doing a first-rate impression of a car alarm, and the Florida sun glinted off his left hand where it hovered over the keyboard. Morning in Palacios Del Mar Retirement Community hummed around him, lawnmowers faint in the distance, the sounds of Mrs. Alvarado having a loud and cheerful argument with Mr. Sandoval across the street, the warbling clatter of grackles squabbling at his bird feeder. It was Monday, and he didn't have a damn thing to do until he met Howie for drinks that afternoon.

"Why not?" he muttered under his breath, and hit REPLY.

 **Dear Frustrated**

 **Kick the asshole out. Jesus Christ. Find a roommate who isn't a fucking hoarder.**

 **Bucky**

He located the email containing the water bill, paid it, and logged off, not thinking twice about the incident.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"Are you seeing someone?" asked Howie.

"What?" Bucky threw back his shot and gave his friend a suspicious look. "No, no way. Don't try to set me up with one of Sabra's nieces, either." He thunked the shot glass on the bar aggressively.

"No," laughed Howie, gesturing with his beer at Bucky's phone, sitting between them on the bar. "Your phone. It's been buzzing like all get-out for the past hour."

"Steve probably forgot his lunch again," grumbled Bucky. He picked up the phone and swiped it open. No missed calls or texts; Facebook looked normal; email notifications …

"Holy shit," he muttered. Two hundred seventy-three new emails.

No way could they ALL be Viagra ads.

"This is weird," he said to Howie with a frown. "Sorry, just let me check … " He thumbed the first email open.

 **Dear Buckie,**

 **I don't usually do this, but I am at my wit's end! My boyfriend never likes it when I go out with my girlfriends or even go out jogging by myself. He says it's dangerous for a woman to be out alone or with other women and he always insists on going with me, even when I want to just hang out with my friends. He's putting a huge damper on my social life and my GFs are starting to not invite me out because they know he'll show up to our girls nights. I've caught him snooping on my phone, and when I thumbprint locked it he blew up at me and said I don't trust him! And I just found a video camera hidden in our bedroom! He says it's to make sure I don't go out without him! I know he loves me and wants me to be safe, but this is starting to creep me out. Help! What should I do?**

 **Smothered Girlfriend**

"Anything wrong?" asked Howie, gesturing to the barback for the tab.

"Not for me," muttered Bucky, perplexed. "But this girl needs to lose her guy, like, yesterday." He quickly typed a response.

 **Smothered,**

 **This dick DOES NOT LOVE YOU. He's an insecure manipulative asshole who doesn't deserve you. He's ruining your friendships and spying on you. What guy needs to do that? Lose this fucking creep before he gets worse. And change your phone number. IMHO get some pepper spray too. AIM FOR THE EYES.**

 **Bucky**

"Sabra's making lamb Friday," said Howie as they got up. Bucky gave his phone one last puzzled glance, and shoved it in his jeans pocket. They wound through the evening crowd around the bar and exited through the patio gate to the parking lot. The sky was awash with pinks and teals, mounded with clouds like clotted cream. Seagulls called and shrieked around a discarded bag of French fries at the curb. "You and Steve want to help me eat it? We've invited the Allens, too."

Bucky thought about Sabra's lamb, fragrant and steaming and perfectly medium-rare. "Hell yeah," he asserted. "What can I bring?"

"Just Steve," grinned Howie. "He brings that nice French wine whenever he gets invited out. You know that crap Sabra likes. Don't make me drink it."

"You got it, pal," Bucky assured him, and clapping the older man on the shoulder, swung his leg over his motorcycle. He waved to Howie, then felt his phone buzz against his hip. He pulled it out and glanced at it.

He'd gotten twenty-seven emails in the past ten minutes.

"What the hell?" he muttered.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

He sat down at his rickety kitchen table, opened the first email, and read.

 **Dear Buckie**

 **My mother in law is driving me crazy. She is so loud! Not like she's yelling but her voice is always a lot louder than anyone else's. She's not mean or angry, but people always stare at her when she talks. My wife says she's only been this way the past few years. She's embarrassing, and it's getting to the point that I don't want to invite her over for parties or functions, but my wife says it's not fair and gets mad when I don't include her. Honestly, I get so tired of hearing her loud toneless voice blaring all the time, but she really is good to my wife and kids, so I feel bad. Should I stop inviting her over? Or give people ear plugs?**

 **Irritated son in law**

Bucky sighed.

 **Irritated,**

 **Maybe she's deaf. Sometimes people get that way when they get older. Got a bunch of friends who lost their hearing and they're loud as hell. You're goddamn lucky to have a nice mother in law. Give her a break and quit being a fucking whiner.**

 **Bucky**

He hit SEND and opened up the next email. "One down, three hundred forty-five to go," he grumbled, and poured himself a shot of tequila.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

There was a light rap on his sliding glass door. Bucky looked up and rubbed his eyes; they felt gritty and dry. Steve stood there in the glow of the safety light, moths whirling around him. He was wearing pajama pants – because apparently Steve was an old man who still thought it was 1938 – and had ruffled-up baby chick hair, which was actually kind of cute, and a concerned look on his face, which definitely wasn't.

Bucky frowned. Why was his light on? And why was it dark outside? Was it an eclipse? The sun couldn't have set already. He glanced at his computer clock. 3:55 AM.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he groaned, got up, and opened the sliding glass door. Three moths wobbled into his kitchen, followed by his best friend who, to be fair, didn't wobble at all.

"Bucky," said Steve. He had worry-divots between his eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," growled Bucky, running his flesh hand through his hair. "Answering emails."

Steve blinked. "Still? You were answering emails when I brought dinner over."

"Yeah, well," said Bucky. He groped for the tequila bottle. Empty. That was quick. He threw it in the recycling bin and dug around in the top cabinet for a new bottle. "They just keep coming in." He broke the seal on the bottle and wriggled the cork out. "Comin' in faster than I can answer them."

Steve slid the door closed and stood staring at him. Bucky refilled his shot glass, then thoughtfully filled one for Steve as well. Steve took it and frowned into its amber depths. "Who on earth keeps emailing you?" he demanded.

"I dunno, lots of people," said Bucky. He spun the laptop so Steve could see the screen. "They all come from this one email address, but there's loads of different folks. Most of 'em whiners, but some of 'em have real bad problems."

"Problems?" Steve bent over the table and scrolled down through the latest email from "Ponylover in Trouble." He frowned. "Oh my god. This boy is getting bullied because he watches a cartoon?"

"I know, right?" said Bucky indignantly. "What the fuck? Let 'em watch what they fuckin' like! And he gets called a homo because it's a kid's show. Who the hell cares? I'm a grown-ass man and I play Mario Kart, for Christ's sake." He downed his shot.

"Why is he writing to _you_ , though?" asked Steve. He scrolled up through the inbox. "Jesus, Buck, you just got nine more in the past minute. Who are all these people, and how are they contacting you?"

"I dunno," Bucky admitted. "The email address is 'Snap Press Help,' or somethin' like that. And it's not spam. It's coming straight to my inbox."

Steve puzzled over the inbox for a moment, clicking on various emails and links while Bucky yawned and scratched his ass. "This is unbelievable," said Steve slowly. "I have no idea why this is happening to you, but it's a huge invasion of your privacy."

" _My_ privacy?" said Bucky, incredulous. "Ain't nothin' about _my_ privacy, bub. It's _their_ privacy. Jesus, I'm hearing about everything. Incontinence, gay cats, foot fetishes, satanic grandkids – "

"Are they all asking _your_ advice?" asked Steve.

Bucky glowered. "Don't think I didn't notice you said 'your' like you were surprised," he snapped. "I know you think I got a head like a day-old pig, but I ain't stupid."

"I know you're not," soothed Steve. "You're not stupid. You've done a lot and you know a lot of practical things. But this – " he gestured to the laptop screen, on which four new emails had appeared. "They're asking your advice about life problems – relationships, family matters. I'd understand if they wanted to know what you thought about exhaust manifolds, or sniper scopes, or the political situation in Pakistan, but – " He opened the newest email. "Cheating on a work-husband? What does that even mean?"

"Probably that she's got this guy who helps her out at work, and now she's going to some other guy at work for help instead," explained Bucky. "Actually, that's the third email like that I've gotten tonight."

"How do you even know what a work-husband is?" demanded Steve. "How can you answer all these emails? What if it's something you can't answer?"

"Oh, that's easy," said Bucky. He plucked Steve's shot glass out of his hand and downed it. "I Google it if I don't understand it, and if I don't have a good answer, I just tell 'em to find a professional instead. Like, for child custody stuff, get a lawyer. Or if a woman's gettin' harassed, talk to the cops. That kinda thing."

Steve shook his head, bemused. "I wonder why you're getting these emails?" he murmured, as the notification dinged softly.

"Beats me," Bucky admitted. "Obviously some kinda mistake. Probably get fixed by tomorrow, right?"

"Probably," agreed Steve. He folded his arms over his chest and watched Bucky sit back down at the table, pour himself a fresh shot, and start composing his answer to Ponylover. Bucky's fingers flew over the keyboard, the metal ones making light clicking noises, much like the sounds the moths were making, beating their fuzzy insect heads against Bucky's sliding glass door. "You gonna answer all of them?" he asked, amused.

"Hell yeah," said Bucky absently. "Some of these people need real help. Not gonna just let 'em sit there if I can at least tell 'em to call the authorities or their priest or someone."

"Right," said Steve. He watched Bucky for a few moments, seeing the pale blue glow etch crow's feet and frown lines on his friend's scruffy face, leaching the color from his grey eyes. Bucky hit SEND and took another drink, then glanced up at Steve.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing," smiled Steve. "I'm going back to bed." He craned his neck to look at the laptop screen. "Unless you need help with 'pornhating granny'?"

"Naw, I got her number," grinned Bucky. "Git outa here, punk."

Steve opened the sliding glass door with a chuckle. "I'll bring you coffee tomorrow morning," he said fondly. "Jerk."

Bucky just grunted, his attention on his laptop. Steve slid the door closed, cutting out the sound of his typing, and went back to his side of the duplex, thinking hard.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

He brought coffee and pancakes the next morning. Bucky was still hard at it, dark circles under his eyes, his hair starting to look a little greasy. Steve convinced him to take a shower while he did the breakfast dishes in Bucky's cluttered sink. He counted fifty-three notifications while Bucky was in the bathroom.

Bucky was in the middle of brushing his teeth and came out with a towel wrapped around himself, dripping water on the tile floor. He typed an answer to an email, sent it, then went back to the bathroom. When he came back out, he had toothpaste gummed in one corner of his mouth, and his clean Flogging Molly tee shirt was sticking damply to his skin. He hadn't brushed his hair, and it hung dripping and lank down his back.

"Aren't you playing golf with Jim and Howie today?" asked Steve, putting the clean, mismatched dishes away in Bucky's untidy cabinets.

"Uh," said Bucky absently, scowling down at his current email. "I guess not today." He typed furiously a moment, frowning. "Jesus," he muttered. "Some people, god."

Steve waited, but Bucky was obviously caught up in his work. "You gonna call them?" he prompted.

"Hm?" said Bucky, his eyes still on the computer screen.

"Nothing," said Steve. He exited Bucky's kitchen, shaking his head. He'd seen Bucky's email inbox. Over a thousand messages, and still coming in.

He called Jim and Howie, and told them that Bucky was caught up in something on the Internet and couldn't make it. It was testament to their familiarity with Bucky's erratic attention span that neither man was surprised or offended.

Next, Steve called Maria Hill.

He waited for her admin to transfer his call and stared down at the email address he'd scribbled on one of Bucky's paper towels. He was suddenly struck by how silly it sounded, and blushed, wondering if he was making a mountain out of a molehill. But no; at the rate those emails were rolling in, Bucky would drown in them before he could answer even a fraction of those strange, exhibitionist queries. Steve knew that nothing he could say or do would keep Bucky from trying, even if it drove him to a nervous breakdown, and god only knew what kinds of replies he was sending to the people he'd decided he didn't like.

"Steve," said Maria warmly. "How's Florida treating you?"

"Fine," said Steve. Chances were she knew damn well everything he and Bucky had been up to, anyway. Frequent debugging and changing burner phones was only a stop-gap to the WSC knowing their every move. "Weather's great, fish are biting, neither of us have killed anyone lately."

"Well, that's good to know," she said briskly. "To what do I owe this call? Drumming up donations for the Ringling again?"

"I'm offended," said Steve severely. "You ought to know by now that all of my begging for funding is done under the guise of expensive benefit dinners."

"If the next one also features five-star French chefs, you have my unequivocal support," said Maria. "Tony and Pepper still rave about that _pâté aux cèpes._ What's up?"

"Could be nothing," said Steve. He could practically hear her spine straighten over the phone, hundreds of miles away. "Bucky's getting a lot of emails all of a sudden."

"Oh?" Steve heard soft clacking, her fingers flying over her own keyboard. "Which email address?"

"His main one, the Gmail," said Steve. "It started yesterday. They're coming in from one sender, but every email is written by a different person. They're all addressed to him, and call him by his name." He paused, then added, "Though it's misspelled."

"Wait," said Maria suspiciously. "Misspelled? Not B-U-C-K-Y, but B-U-C-K-I-E?"

"Yes, that's it," said Steve. "And they're all asking questions about their lives – "

"Oh, my god," said Maria softly, and then she began to laugh in earnest – not the soft chuckle she gave after a funny joke, or the sarcastic bark when someone was being condescending, or even the polite giggle for someone who wasn't funny at all but outranked her. This was a deep, cracking belly-laugh, one that Steve wasn't sure he'd ever heard out of her, certainly not since the Accords had dismantled the Avengers.

"What's so funny?" he huffed when she'd died down enough to hear him.

"Oh, my god!" Maria cackled. "Steve, this is an advice column from the online magazine, SnaPress. Readers send their problems to a fictional grandmother type named Buckie, and she tells them how to solve all their woes." Maria laughed again. "How many emails did you say he'd gotten?"

"Over a thousand since yesterday," said Steve, unsure whether he should feel relieved or aggravated. "How on earth can one person answer that many emails?"

"It's not one person," explained Maria, still chuckling gleefully. "It's actually a group of people who answer emails that drop into a main email inbox – sociologists, psychologists, doctors, lawyers. We were datamining online mags for info on industrial espionage, and my team and I had to dig in to a lot of setups like this. It's like 'Dear Abby,' only on the Internet."

"So they must've put the wrong email address on their website," said Steve with a sigh. "Oh, thank god. At least it's an easy fix."

"Should be," agreed Maria. "Wait. Oh, my god, wait." There was the sound of frantic typing on the other end. Steve waited. "Steve," said Maria, starting to giggle. "Please tell me Barnes hasn't actually been _answering_ these emails?"

"As many as he can," admitted Steve. "He stayed up all night, answering every single one. He was still at it a minute ago. He's swamped, but he seems determined to help all the people who are writing to him. To 'Buckie,' I mean," he amended.

Maria laughed again. "You're not going to believe this, Steve," she said. "But apparently all of his replies post automatically to SnaPress's 'Lifestyle' page."

"Uh oh," said Steve, feeling very apprehensive. "You mean – "

"'Dear Buckie' updates are flooding their newsfeed," said Maria cheerfully. "Every single one of his brusque, rude, invective-riddled responses. All of them. On the Web."

"You've got to be kidding me," Steve groaned.

"Oh god, oh god, listen to this one," insisted Maria eagerly. "'Dear Buckie, My girlfriend has been saving for a year to take a trip to Scotland with her friends, and at first when she asked me if I wanted to go I didn't want to, but now she's going I've changed my mind. But I can't afford it, and she won't loan me the money to buy a ticket, she says I have to use my own money. I think she's being unreasonable. What can I say to convince her?' And here's Barnes' reply: 'Look, asshole, are you fucking twelve? You had a goddamn year to think about buying that ticket and it's not her fucking problem you don't know shit about planning ahead. I hope she goes and leaves your sorry ass behind because it's obvious your balls haven't dropped yet. Grow up!'" Maria whooped. "It's all there! On SnaPress's site! And oh god – " Steve heard more clicking. "It's gotten over three thousand thumbs-up from readers!"

"Jesus," muttered Steve.

"And that's not all!" crowed Maria. "Apparently their readership has skyrocketed in the past twelve hour cycle. 'Ask Buckie' is a hit!"

Steve dropped his head on the kitchen counter. "Oh god," he said.

"Well," chuckled Maria. "Maybe we can ask them to change the name of the page to 'Ask the Winter Soldier'? I bet Ross will LOVE that! I need to show this to Sharon; she'll die laughing. Wait, wait, Steve, here's the next one, from 'Disgruntled in Denver' – "

"Oh, go to hell, Ree," grumbled Steve, and hung up on her delighted laughter.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"More lamb, dear?" asked Sabra, one fragrant slice already quivering temptingly on the end of the silver serving fork.

"Yes, please," said Bucky eagerly, passing his plate. "And more potatoes too, if it's okay."

"You know it is," said Sabra warmly. "Jim, pass the potatoes down to Bucky, will you?"

"You bet," said Jim. "Steve, pass the salt."

Steve handed the cut crystal shakers down to Jim and Ellie at the other end of the Fettermans' dining room table. Sabra had set it with her best linens and fine china, and although he'd never have admitted it, Steve knew Bucky was always flattered by the special treatment. "Sabra, the lamb is fantastic," he said. "Thank you for having us."

"Well, I'm just glad our local celebrity was able to carve some time out of his busy schedule," said Sabra archly. Bucky grinned at her and she shook her head fondly. "My goodness, Bucky, you do know how to stir things up!"

"Next week's greens fees are on you, you know," said Howie, filling Bucky's glass with the Haut-Médoc Steve had brought over. "Can't believe you ditched Jim and me to write an agony column."

"Wasn't my fault they messed up their contact link," protested Bucky, cutting into his lamb.

"Was it necessary to answer those emails, Bucky?" asked Ellie worriedly. "It took you _days_!"

"How many were there, at the end of it?" asked Jim. "El, could you pass the butter?"

"Four thousand, eight hundred and fifty-seven," said Steve. "By the time they figured out their panel of experts wasn't getting any emails, Bucky had answered almost all of them."

Howie whistled. "That's a lot of advice," he said, impressed.

Jim chuckled. "No, that's a lot of times Bucky had to type 'get your head out of your ass,' I bet," he said.

Bucky shook his head, finished chewing his lamb, and swallowed. "More to it than that, Jimbo," he said seriously. "A lot of those people had real bad problems. Couldn't just let 'em hang there, could I?"

"You _could_ have," said Ellie, reaching across the table to pat Bucky's metal hand. "But you didn't. That was very sweet of you."

"Sweet, with a side of sassy," retorted Sabra with a wry smile. "I read some of your responses, Bucky. What language!"

"It's why we love him," declared Howie, passing the basket of rolls. "He doesn't pull his punches!"

"And he doesn't let anyone down," added Ellie, grinning when Bucky blushed.

"Unless it's his golf buddies," amended Jim with a chuckle. He raised his wine glass. "To Dear Bucky!"

"To Dear Bucky," they laughed, clinking glasses.

"Yeah, whatever," said Bucky, beet red, sliding the peas closer so he could have seconds. "Just glad that's over. Don't think I slept for three days straight."

"I thought they fixed the link the next day?" said Sabra, surprised.

"They did," said Bucky. "But I still had to answer all those emails."

"You could've forwarded them to the correct email address, you know," said Steve with a smile. "They have a team of experts who deal with that sort of thing."

"I could have," agreed Bucky. "But I wouldn't. They wrote to _me._ I was gonna take care of it, dammit."

Steve chuckled and shook his head. "You're an idiot," he said affectionately.

"Yeah, well, I don't see the whole Internet hangin' on _your_ words of wisdom, pal," Bucky retorted.

"'Wisdom,' laughed Howie. "God, you guys, can you imagine if all advice columnists wrote back the way our Bucky did? Four-letter words and all?"

"It would be refreshing," protested Jim.

"Scandalous," argued Sabra.

"Irrelevant," said Bucky, helping himself to the squash casserole. "It was a one-time deal. Ain't gonna happen again."

"Thank god for that," said Steve, refilling his wine glass.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The morning was warm and bright. It had rained after they'd gotten home from the Fettermans' house, low rumbles of thunder teasing Bucky awake with vague memories of mortar fire and foxholes. He had dozed uneasily after that, climbing out of bed at daybreak, pulling on tattered board shorts and a second-hand Perry the Platypus tee shirt, worn to softness. Anoles chased each other around the fence that separated his yard from Steve's, and behind their property, up the low rise, cattle egrets stalked the palmetto shrub, snapping up bugs. Bucky settled the laptop more securely on his legs and clicked OPEN.

 **Dear Bucky,**

 **I'm a middle-aged woman with grown children. I was raised very conservative, and my parents, who are still living, are avid church-goers and very rigid in their beliefs. I recently found out that my son has a boyfriend. I like the young man, he treats my son well, and they're talking about marriage. I know my parents are going to disown him. My son loves his grandparents and it would break his heart to not invite them to the wedding. What should we do?**

 **Worried Mother**

Bucky kicked his feet up onto the chair opposite him, settled down into the cushion, and smiled at the mockingbird, who was now imitating the sound of a cell phone ringing. He poured himself a shot of tequila and started typing.

 _fin_


End file.
